I Am Become Darkness
by DramioneDawn
Summary: Everyone expected things to get better after Harry killed the Dark Lord, but now Death Eaters are showing up dead only days before their trials, the Ministry is unwilling to admit that anything is amiss, and Hermione has been having dreams about a new threat to the Wizarding World. What happens when an allegedly-dead Draco Malfoy shows up in her bedroom with a risky proposition?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all! This is my first fic, so please cut me some slack if it gets off to a rocky start. That said, if you have any comments/complaints/suggestions leave me a review – I would literally LOVE to hear from you!**

 **This is going to be a longggg fic with some dark themes in later chapters...and it is VERY Dramione, so if you're on board for that buckle up because things are about to get interesting for our two favorite wizards.**

 **Finally, I'm going to do my very best to update biweekly, but don't hate me if life occasionally gets in the way and I forget. Without further aideu...**

Initially, she had written off her dreams as PTSD-induced nightmares, brought on by a childhood cut short by violence and hate. Of course, she found it odd that she relived the same sequence of nightmarish events every night – Lucius Malfoy holding court in a room made of steel, Fenrir Greyback laughing maniacally about the "new era" in which only the 'most deserving' wizards would have access to magic, and Nott Sr. going on about purging the Wizarding World of mudbloods and blood traitors alike, followed each time by the same three words – _be ready mudblood._

That one phrase had haunted her day and night for nearly two years; it was something about the way it sounded not so much like a threat as a warning, not necessarily meant to scare her but to prepare her for what was to come.

And then, two weeks ago, she'd come home one night to none other than Draco Malfoy lounging on her bed with her favorite childhood teddy bear sitting on his right leg.

Registering his blonde hair and trademark Malfoy smirk, she had instinctively drawn her wand – intending to stupefy him before he'd even noticed her arrival. But, before she could get the spell out, his storm grey eyes narrowed infinitesimally and her wand flew from her hand to his.

"Granger, where are your manners?" He scoffed, feigning offense.

"Malfoy, what the hell?" She responded – trying desperately to hide her fear behind a brave front. He may have been dressed in pitch black jeans and a grey t-shirt, but she knew damn well that the man before her was a death eater. And, now that she thought about it, he was also supposed to be dead.

He laughed mockingly, obviously enjoying her distress, "you're not happy to see me? I'm hurt." he joked, clasping a hand to his chest in mock offense.

"Why are you here?" She asked defensively, slowly edging her way towards the foot of her bed where Malfoy had carelessly tossed her wand. "Scratch that, _how_ are you here?" She amended.

He stopped laughing abruptly, and rolled his eyes at her. "You know, for the smartest witch of our age you really haven't been paying attention."

"Why are you here?" She bit out again tersely, clearly done playing along with his antics.

Sensing this, Malfoy stood up slowly, carefully replacing her bear in its particular place on the bed, before taking two rapid strides towards her until they were face to face.

Hermione's breath hitches at his sudden proximity, and she moved to step back before he grabbed her wrist and spun her back towards him. Bringing his face even closer to hers, gripping her chin to demand her attention, he whispered, "I know that you hate me, but right now I need you to listen to me, because I am your _only_ fucking chance."

Ripping her face from his grasp, Hermione slapped him before taking a wobbly step back. "You're right, I do hate you. And I don't trust you, and I want you to get out of my _fucking_ apartment," she spat angrily.

He slowly brought his hand up to rub at his cheek, smirking at her knowingly – "having any bad dreams lately, Granger?"

She stopped in her tracks, frozen in place. "What the fuck do you know, Ferret?" She asked fiercely, only half wanting to know the answer.

"I know that the war isn't over, and I know that your pathetic excuse for an Order is completely unprepared for what's coming," he spat back with equal force. "But you already know that, don't you Granger? Otherwise, you'd have run to Wonder Boy and the Weasel already."

She crossed her arms defiantly, unwilling to admit that he had hit uncomfortably close to the truth. She had long ago recognized the ministry's incompetence, and had come to a similar realization about the Order. Both were happy to blindly enjoy the post-war bliss and bask in the fame and power that came with their victory.

Eyeing her wand, now less than a foot away, she spoke deliberately, doing her very best to divert his attention from her hand as she reached towards the bed. "Even if that were true, what other choice do I have than to rely on the Order?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, and said "that's where I come in," as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

In one quick motion, Hermione had Malfoy pinned to the ground, her wand jabbing aggressively into his neck. "If you have something to say, say it now, Ferret. Otherwise, I can guarantee you a one way ticket to Azkaban by the end of the week," she snarled.

Even with his back to the ground, Malfoy still refused to wipe that incessant smirk off his face and for an instant she could hardly restrain herself from slapping it off herself.

"If I wanted to kill you, Granger, you'd be dead already. And, if you were going to turn me in to the Ministry we would be in Shacklebolt's office right now." Malfoy drawled from beneath her, rolling his eyes defiantly.

"Now, if you could just stop with the dramatics, maybe I could get to the point and get on with my life," he grumbled as he pushed her off of him and sat back on his heels. "Oh, and I'll be keeping that for the time being," he continued, pointing at her wand and wordlessly levitating it to his side.

Hermione's jaw dropped as she watched him, knowing damn well that it would take a much stronger wizard than her longtime bully and general pain in the arse to successfully perform wordless and wandless magic simultaneously. Before she could think better of it, she mouthed the word "how?" more to herself than to him.

"Jealous, are we, Granger?" He chuckled, winking at her suggestively. "I can teach you, if you'd like."

She snapped her mouth shut immediately, crossing her arms with a huff. "Or, you could just get out of my bedroom before I hex you to oblivion and back."

"Yes, but then you'd never have the pleasure of hearing what it is I have to tell you." he replied mysteriously.

Despite her better judgement Hermione sat back and inclined her head slightly, deciding to hear him out before turning him in to the Ministry. After all, she reasoned, if Malfoy really did have information pertaining to the Death Eaters she had a civic duty to hear him out and report back to the Order. Or, at least, that was the flimsy excuse she used to justify her curiosity.

Upon her silent agreement to listen, Malfoy continued – "I assume that you've heard about my recent suicide, along with those of the other eighteen Death Eaters that made up the Dark Lord's inner circle?"

Thinking back through the list of Death Eaters that had been found dead over the past two years, Hermione nodded her head thoughtfully. It was obvious now that Malfoy's death had been staged, which meant that all of the other alleged suicides could have just as easily been fake.

The color drained from her face, leaving her almost as pale as the man sitting across from her. "Go on," she whispered in a voice so low she wasn't even sure he could hear.

"Yes, well, as I'm sure you've pieced together by now the chronic suicides are, in fact, a ruse. A decoy of sorts, meant to keep the Ministry off of The Circle's trail."

Seeing her upheld hand, Malfoy stopped speaking long enough for her to ask: "The Circle?"

Nodding in understanding, he responded "first of all, Granger, we are not in potions class any more so there really is no need to raise your hand like the bucktooth schoolgirl you used to be." Sensing her angry retort, he quickly continued, cutting her off before she could even get a word out. "Second, to answer your question, The Circle is a sadistic group of the eighteen Death Eaters that previously comprised Voldemort's inner circle."

She raised her eyebrows at him pointedly, remembering that for a time Malfoy was suspected to have replaced his father as Voldemort's right hand. "I assume that you are included in the 'sadistic inner circle' category?"

"To most," he replied darkly, averting his eyes briefly. "But you can be sure that I most certainly would not be sitting in the same room as a mudblood, attempting to have a pseudo-civil conversation if my loyalties lied with the Death Eaters."

As much as she hated him, and wanted to believe that he was the vile monster he seemed, she couldn't argue with the logic. He had somehow managed to get past her intricate web of wards, break into her apartment, confiscate her wand (twice, no less), and still he had left her alive.

Still, she had trouble believing that the man sitting across from her had undergone such a monumental transformation as to have grown a conscience. "Then where do your loyalties lie, Malfoy?" She questioned uneasily.

He shrugged, looking intensely into her chocolate brown eyes as he explained, "My loyalties lie only with myself, they did during the War and they do now. The whole world can burn for all I care, I just want to make it out alive." He paused for a moment, looking at her with a look she couldn't quite identify. "Right now, our interests align, so I'm here to offer you my help...and to ask for yours in return."

She couldn't help the uncontrollable girlish laughter that bubbled out of her in that moment. Holding her side and struggling to catch her breath she rasped out "I'm sorry, but did Draco Malfoy, the man who has always treated me as a subhuman piece of shite really just have the audacity to ask for my help?"

He frowned, obviously unamused, and moved to stand. "Fine then. If you really think your pathetic little Ministry is equipt to

go up against the Death Eaters when they come for your magic, go ahead and give it your best shot."

Without thinking, she grabbed his wrist to keep him from leaving. They both froze for an instant that seemed to last much longer than it actually did before she let go abruptly, letting her hand fall limply to her side. "What do you mean, when the Death Eaters come for our magic?" She whispered softly, unable to find her voice.

He looked at her for a long moment before whispering back in an equally hushed tone, "before Voldemort fell, he unleashed one final curse – unlike anything else I've ever heard of – a curse meant to punish the Wizarding World, a curse meant to eradicate magic from all but his inner circle and thus give them unlimited power."

Her limbs turning to jelly beneath her, she fell back onto her bed gracelessly, tears springing from the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over. Glancing down at her, Malfoy continued, "but you already knew that, didn't you Granger?"

Shaking her head in denial, Hermione refused to meet his eyes. There was no way it could be true, she thought. But then, when she thought about it realistically, there was really no way it couldn't be true. Malfoy, back from the dead, sitting in her bedroom, somehow privy to her dreams, was warning her of the very group he belonged to – you couldn't just make something like that up.

"So then what's your plan?" She asked, still only half believing that he was telling her the truth.

Lifting her chin with a finger so their eyes met, he spoke with a determination that shook her to her core "I'm going to destroy them from the inside out, and I need you to help me. But first, I need you to become someone else – something else."

They stood their for what felt like a small eternity, neither one willing or able to move until Malfoy pulled out a small piece of parchment from his pant pocket, and folded it gently into her hand.

"Goodnight, Granger." He whispered before apparating from the room without any sign that he had ever been there in the first place.

The parchment consisted of only one line – an address scrawled out in perfect script:

 _167 Walnut Blvd._

Without another thought, she crumpled the paper in her hand and threw it violently across the room, determined to put the entire exchange behind her.

She had gone to bed that night with a plan: she would report her conversation with Malfoy to the ministry first thing tomorrow morning, inform the Order of her series of seemingly-prophetic dreams and the looming threat posed by Voldemort's inner circle, and she would do her damn best to forget all about her bizarre encounter with Malfoy and his cryptic parchment.

Of course, things never really did go according to plan.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Hermione had woken up determined to put the events of the previous night behind her – tell the ministry what she knew, and do her best to wipe her latest encounter with Malfoy from her memory entirely.

Taking an extra moment to examine herself in the mirror, she let out a groan of disapproval. She was wearing her best muggle blazer underneath her freshly pressed ministry robes, and she had spent the last hour charming her hair to perfection.

Whereas it had once curled wildly – framing her face with untamed locks – it now fell elegantly down her back in loose curls...tamed, controlled. She sighed, knowing full well that her hair wasn't the problem. It was her. Who she had become. Or, rather, who she had allowed herself to be molded into by the ministry.

In all honesty, she could care less about her hair or her clothes or her status.

Of course, in the beginning she had readily agreed to all of it – the updated closet, the new hair style, the weekly press conferences and public appearances.

She had truly believed that by becoming a spokeswoman for the Ministry she would be able to do some good in the world – help the helpless, provide a voice to the voiceless, and restore justice in the Wizarding World – but the opposite had become true. She was now a Ministry puppet, a pretty doll that her superiors dressed up and trotted out every so often to remind everyone of their victory in the War.

She sighed, turning from the mirror abruptly and shoving her doubts into the corner of her mind that she generally managed to keep locked away. Her conversation with Malfoy had somehow managed to unlock a door in her consciousness that she had forced herself to close years ago, but she'd be damned if she let that _ferret_ wriggle his way into her mind and fuck with her life.

She just needed to be patient. After all, it had been less than two years since the War. Surely she could give the Ministry another few months to bask in the glory of victory. She was just expecting too much, she reasoned half heartedly as she went to floo to her meeting with Kingsley. Even if the Ministry was floundering, she knew that Kingsley meant well – she knew that she could confide in him.

She walked into the Ministry with her head held high, smiling at all the right people, stopping briefly to speak with her secretary, Dianne, and again to grab a cinnamon bagel from the Ministry lounge before stepping into her office to find none other than Ronald Weasley perched awkwardly on her desk.

Things between she and Ron had been tense, at best, since their sudden engagement three months ago.

Ron's proposal had come as a complete shock to Hermione, given that her feelings for him had become rather lukewarm since the final battle (a sentiment that she had assumed he shared, what with their lack of physical intimacy over the past year).

Of course she loved Ron, would always love him. But it had become clear to her long ago that her love was solely platonic. She could never love him in the way that he deserved to be loved by a wife.

Nonetheless, when Ron had gotten down on one knee in front of a crowd of hundreds of people at a charity gala in August – proclaiming to the world that he would love and cherish her for the rest of his life – she'd had little choice but to accept.

She had intended to break off the engagement quietly in the days and weeks after that fateful evening, but with all of the fanfare and well-wishes she had never worked up the courage to do it. And so here she was, face to face with her best friend and soon-to-be-husband that she could hardly bear to think of romantically.

"Hey Mione!" Ron said chipperly as she entered the room. She smiled at him pleasantly, doing her best to appear as if all was normal, not wanting to burden him unnecessarily. He smiled back conspiratorially, sidling up closer to her as if he were telling her an especially juicy secret, "you will never guess what happened to me this morning!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows curiously, letting out a laugh at his childlike excitement, "tell me," she encouraged.

Hardly able to contain his news, Ron shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out two shiny tickets. "Some old bloke I passed on my way to work stopped me on the street to thank me for my efforts during the War, and then he gave me these!" he exclaimed gleefully, waving the tickets in her face frantically.

Plucking the set of tickets out of his hand, she glanced down at them to find they were box seat tickets to Friday's quidditch match between the Harpies and the Cannons. Hermione rolled her eyes, "Ronald, you can't keep taking all of these free handouts!" she scolded half heartedly, knowing it would fall on deaf ears, "Isn't it time that we all move on from the War anyways?" she went on, once again recalling the same doubts she had banished this morning.

"Mione, why do you always have to be such a buzzkill?" he whined. "It's just nice to be appreciated! And what am I supposed to do, anyways, just deny the people the chance to thank me for my bravery?" he continued, clasping a hand to his heart as if he were genuinely hurt.

It took all of her self restraint to keep from scoffing at his arrogance but, in a flimsy attempt at civility, Hermione only smiled sweetly at him and shrugged. "Alright then, we will go to the game."

Thrilled at her change of attitude, Ron practically leap at her – planting a particularly wet kiss on her lips that she complied with lazily before pulling away after a few short moments that seemed to drag on for years.

Subtly wiping her mouth, she searched for something – anything – to say to change the subject. "How about lunch, then?" she asked pleasantly, masking her eagerness to have him out of her office with a shy smile. "Yes, lunch!" Ron exclaimed, once again reverting back into the boy she had loved so dearly before the war. "I'll see you then, Mione!" he shouted over his shoulder as he walked out of her office and back towards the auror department, likely to find Harry.

For the second time that morning, she found herself wondering how she had gotten here – how she had become this person – the sort of person that allowed her friends to strut around like pompous arseholes and remained in loveless relationships only to avoid public backlash.

She shook her head, forcing the thoughts out of her head once more, and sat down at her desk. She scanned her eyes slowly over this weeks agenda and sighed with resignation, scribbling in the quidditch game for Friday evening before heading towards Kingsley's office to discuss the matter at hand.

She approached Kingsley's door hesitantly, still slightly intimidated by the idea of marching into the Minister of Magic's office with her outlandish speculations about the allegedly-dead deaths eaters regardless of their history together in the Order.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she knocked quietly on his office door before taking a quick step back.

Suddenly, from behind her she heard Kingsley's booming voice, "Ah Miss Granger, I was so pleased to hear that I would be meeting with you this morning." he greeted amicably, moving to open the door and usher her in. "Although I must say that I was rather surprised when I received your owl last night."

Hermione smiled apologetically, "I am sorry to impose...but you must know that I wouldn't bother you if it weren't of the utmost importance" she replied guiltily, knowing full well that he was politely alluding to the fact that she had owled him at 2:00 in the morning and instructed her owl not to leave until it had a response from the Minister himself.

Kingsley chuckled kindly, sitting down behind his desk. "You could never impose, my dear. Now, tell me what it is that has you so concerned." He said seriously, motioning for her to continue.

With that, she jumped head first into her explanation – telling him first of her recurring dream, and then of her run in with Malfoy. Kingsley interrupted her only once, reminding her gently that Draco Malfoy had been found dead nearly a month ago.

She had, of course, gone on to explain to him her theory that the Death Eaters had been faking their own deaths to evade the Ministry's grasp, but he had only raised an eyebrow at her doubtfully before allowing her to finish her story.

When she had, in fact, concluded her account, Kingsley stood abruptly and walked around his desk to kneel beside her. Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, he asked "Hermione, have you been having trouble sleeping?"

Shocked, she met his gaze in confusion, "Minister, I hardly see how that's relevant given the information I've just relayed." She replied stiffly, silently begging him to take her concerns seriously.

Kingsley spread his hands wide as if to convince her that he really did want to help but had no power to do so. "I'm sorry Hermione, but even if I did believe you I simply cannot divert ministry resources to investigate a Death Eater coup based solely on your dreams and conjectures," He explained.

Her jaw dropped at his blatant dismissal. "Pardon me, Minister, but after everything I've just told you I truly don't understand how you figure I've based my theory on _dreams and conjectures._ " she replied angrily, doing her best to keep her temper in check.

Unwilling to even consider her argument, Kingsley stood quickly and went to fetch something out of his desk drawer. Walking back to Hermione's side, he handed her what looked to be a business card. It wasn't until she read over it briefly that she realized it belonged to Dr. Victoria Prewett – a renowned psychiatrist at St. Mungos.

"Hermione, I think it would be wise for you to take some time off from the Ministry. Maybe reach out to Dr. Prewett; I've heard that she has been very helpful to many of your classmates since the war. " Kingsley explained kindly, as if he weren't practically firing her.

"You cannot be serious?" Hermione questioned in disbelief, unable to grasp the fact that the man she had once fought beside was now convinced that she was crazy and unfit to work.

"I'm sorry Hermione, please understand that I have only your best interest at heart." He replied calmly, returning to his desk where he began to sift through a stack of parchment. "You may go, I will notify you when you've been cleared to return to work." He said finally, glancing up at her briefly before returning his attention to the parchment before him.

She stood frozen in place for what seemed like an eternity before turning on her heel and storming out of the Ministry altogether.

She couldn't help but laugh at the downpour that greeted her as she stepped onto the street outside of the Ministry. Turning her eyes to the sky, she let the rain soak through her clothes entirely before she moved to find shelter.

Running a hand through her hair, she realized that the rain had caused it to revert back to its unwieldy curls. And, for a moment, she felt utterly free – uncontrolled and uncontrollable for the first time since the final battle.

Before she could think better of it, she was running down the street manically – unemployed, drenched in rain, and entirely unconstrained for the first time in what felt like a century.

For a moment, she wasn't bothered that the press was likely taking countless photographs of her antics, that Kingsley thought her certifiable enough to fire, that she was engaged to a man she didn't love and oftentimes didn't recognize, or even that Draco Malfoy had somehow unwound her life in less than 24 hours.

For a moment she was just free, and that was enough.

The day after Kingsley fired her, both Harry and Ron had come knocking on her door to check in on her. Convinced that all she needed was a little fresh air, they had insisted she go to brunch with them and (against her better judgement) she had hesitantly agreed to join them.

The brunch had started out well, Harry had asked her what happened during her meeting with Kingsley and as she relayed what she'd told the Minister both men had nodded along sympathetically, seeming to understand.

It wasn't until Ron spoke that she realized how severely she had miscalculated. As if it were the most natural thing on earth, he'd asked "so then, have you set up an appointment with Dr. Prewett yet? You know, she helped me a lot after Gin disappeared last year."

Her mouth had fallen open in shock, and Hermione felt as if he had punched her straight in the face – would have preferred it, even.

Raising her eyebrows inquisitively, she replied angrily, "Is that what you think I should do, Ronald? See a therapist? After everything I just told you about my dreams, about _Malfoy,_ you don't think we should open a Ministry investigation, you think I should go to _therapy_?"

Both men had flinched at the reprimand, and for a moment she almost felt bad about lashing out – especially after Ron had brought up Ginny. The youngest Weasley had seemed fine for the first few months after the war, had appeared to be coping with the trauma of losing her brother and nearly losing her first love exceedingly well. But then, out of the blue, she had vanished – leaving only a vague letter behind for her family, explaining that she was sorry but that she couldn't bear to live in the aftermath of the war.

No one had seen her since, and no one had taken her sudden departure harder than Ron. He had gone into a fugue state – refusing to speak to anyone, even refusing to eat.

Hermione knew that Dr. Prewett had been instrumental in his recovery, but she also knew that she was in nowhere near the condition Ron had been. Ron had been despondent, Hermione was simply trying to warn the Ministry.

"Come on, Hermione," Harry reasoned, ever the peace maker. "You know we don't think you're crazy, but you do have to admit that all of this sounds a little outlandish...and you don't exactly have any proof."

Hermione glared at him, unwilling to dignify his statement with a response, opting instead to cross her arms over her chest petulantly and take a small sip of water to calm her growing rage.

"Hermione, maybe you should just try to let this one go...maybe look at this time off as a blessing." Harry continued hesitantly, knowing full well that he was on thin ice.

"Honestly Mione, we won the war...it's time to give the conspiracy theories a rest and enjoy it," Ron added in chipperly, shoving yet another raspberry tart into his mouth.

Hermione couldn't help but think that for her two best mates, the two men sitting across from her were remarkably dismissive of her concerns (especially considering that it wasn't too long ago that she had single handled saved all of their lives).

She looked at them pointedly, trying to contain her growing frustration with the other two thirds of the Golden Trio, "I will have you know, Harry Potter, that my _conspiracy theories_ and I have saved your life more times than I can count." Seeing her best friend open his mouth to argue with her, she lifted a finger to silence him, "the world may not remember that, but I do, and you would do well not to forget it," she snapped.

"And you," she continued with a raised voice, now turning her attention to Ron, "as my betrothed, you have an obligation to hear me out before you just dismiss me as some war-obsessed lunatic!"

To her horror, instead of having the decency to look even remotely sorry, her two friends were glancing conspiratorially at each other and doing a monumentally poor job of concealing their sniggers.

Sensing her lack of amusement, Harry held up his hands in surrender, doing his very best to look regretful. "I'm sorry Hermione, I really want to believe you – truly. It's just a little hard to believe that Voldemort's inner circle has been faking their own deaths and is now rallying to eradicate magic."

He glanced up at her sympathetically, speaking in a tone one would use to calm a spooked animal, "it's okay that you still have nightmares about the war, I have them too, but they're just dreams Hermione...they aren't real."

Following Harry's lead, Ron spoke up across from her – grabbing her hand and squeezing it reassuringly. "Yeah Mione, we're just worried about you...we don't want to see you so upset."

Hermione tensed instantly, yanking her hand out of Ron's grasp and fighting back the tears she knew were coming. "Of all people, I never thought you two would be the ones to write me off as crazy!" she screamed.

Knowing full well that her outbreak would be printed on the first page of the Prophet tomorrow morning and only fuel the growing sentiment that she'd gone mental, Hermione stood from the table, flipped its contents onto the laps of her two companions, and hastily stormed out of the cafe without looking back.

"Mione," she heard Ron whine from behind her, likely more upset by her social faux pause than by her rage.

She paused momentarily, hoping against hope that he would come after her. But, to her utter lack of surprise, neither boy followed her – both too concerned with their public image to leave the cafe without first running damage control.

She laughed to herself mirthfully, wondering when she had become the one to fly off the handle in public. She had always prided herself on her ability to maintain her composure in the face of even the most extreme idiocy. She certainly wasn't the type to scream at her two closest friends in a crowded cafe, but she supposed that when everyone began treating you like a head case you were bound to become slightly psychotic.

In truth, she couldn't really even bring herself to blame the boys for their disbelief. When she thought about it logically, her theory did sound mildly psychotic. After all, it _was_ based entirely on a series of dreams that she'd had over the past year and a half and a brief encounter with the allegedly-dead Draco Malfoy two days ago.

Nonetheless, she had thought, at least, that Harry and Ron would believe her. But, it seemed that in the absence of war the two boys were happy to live out their days carefree as wizarding royalty.

She could hardly blame them for wanting an easy life. After all, they had sacrificed more than almost anyone else in the war. For a time, she too had been happy to play the role of war heroine – posing on magazine covers, taking a spot in the ministry as an Auror, enduring a very-public engagement to Ronald Weasley – all for the sake of preserving her title as Gryffindor's princess, but ever since her bizarre encounter with Malfoy she found herself reconsidering.

The next two weeks passed by slowly, and Hermione only left her flat for two things: to buy muggle takeout food and to retrieve a copy of the Prophet. She had closed her floo, and refused to answer any of the owls her friends sent to try and reach her – not in the mood for superficial apologies.

She had, quite literally, become a shut-in.

This morning was no different than any of the others. She had once again dreamed about what Malfoy termed "The Circle", had awoken late to a bedroom basked in sunlight that did little to improve her mood, brewed herself a cup of tea, tied her hair up in a loose bun – allowing the loose curls to frame her face and tangle at the nape of her neck freely, put on her favorite muggle jumper and fuzzy socks, and spent the day curled up under an old fleece blanket on the sofa with a copy of Aldous Huxley's _Brave New World._

It wasn't until noon that she finally ventured out to get her hands on the day's Prophet which, once again, pictured her running through the streets of Wizarding London on the front page with a bolded caption exclaiming " _Hermione Granger: Disappeared After Mental Break."_

She rolled her eyes, utterly unsurprised by the media's lack of imagination. Of course they would just blindly assume that she had gone insane – not bothering to investigate further, satisfied to base their assumptions on a single photograph and a statement from an anonymous Ministry employee who claimed she had seemed "unwell" during the final days of her employment.

Hermione was so preoccupied with the scathing Prophet article that she remained oblivious to the hooded figure that had been trailing her home until she was midway through unlocking the door to her flat and sensed her wards flare at the unexpected visitor. Stopping in her tracks, she spun around violently and grabbed her wand from her pocket, casting an aimless "stupefy."

A dark chuckle arose from the end of the hallway as Blaise Zabini stepped out of the shadows with his hands raised in defeat.

"Hello, Granger." The man greeted with a wolfish smile, continuing his advance towards her doorstep, "Mind if I come in for a short chat?"

Hermione racked her brain for a moment, trying to recall any information she could about Zabini. From what she remembered, he had never chosen a side during the war, instead choosing to flee the country until well after the final battle had concluded.

Still, she couldn't imagine the former Slytherin was any friend to her. Keeping her wand level, she took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. A visit from Zabini certainly wasn't a good thing, but something told her he wasn't going to kill her.

"Zabini, what do you want?" She ground out between clenched teeth, jabbing her wand at him to keep him from coming closer.

Blaise blinked at her in mock surprise, "well I assumed that much would be obvious," he scoffed. "I've been awaiting your visit for _weeks_ now, love, but if Mohammad won't come to the mountain..." he shrugged, obviously enjoying this.

She frowned at him, not understanding his meaning. Rolling his eyes at her, Blaise continued, "alright then, let's try this – does 167 Walnut Boulevard ring any bells?"

Recognizing the address from Malfoy's parchment, Hermione's eyes widened in curiosity. Seeing the recognition on her face, Blaise's grin widened.

"Excellent, let's get to it then," he proclaimed matter of factly, clasping his hands together gleefully, and casting a silent "petrificus totalus" on a still-shocked Hermione.

Moments later, Blaise had carted Hermione into the flat and had taken up residence in her living room – running a finger delicately over the many books that crowded her shelves.

Turning his head to glance back at her, Blaise spoke. "Now I know that my best mate payed you a visit a while ago and gave you my information," he started, now moving on to look at the photographs placed carefully on her mantle.

"I also know that you did the exact opposite of what he advised, and now find yourself in a bit of a predicament." He continued, grabbing a frame of she and Ron smiling at a charity event she'd organized last month.

"How are things between you and my least favorite Weasley?" He asked casually, raising his eyebrows at her mockingly. He let out a low chuckle before returning the photograph to its rightful place and joining Hermione by the kitchen table.

"I'm sorry, that was mean," he amended lightly, "and besides, there will be plenty of time to discuss your unsatisfactory taste in men later."

Hermione was hardly even listening to Blaise's monologue, too busy struggling to break through his spell (to no avail). Generally, the curse would have been relatively easy to reverse with wandless magic, but Zabini's magic seemed to be more powerful than most – making his curse nearly inescapable.

Finding herself trapped in her own body, she focused back in on Zabini's speech, figuring that if she couldn't escape him now, maybe she could at least gleam so information from him that would help her escape later.

"...anyways, she really is thrilled to see you – has been nagging me for the past month to let her come see you. Of course, you'll understand why we couldn't do that – what with the ministry still looking into her." Blaise rambled on, unaware that Hermione had only just begun listening to him.

Hearing that Blaise was intending to abduct her, Hermione panicked. Doubling her efforts to break through the curse. If she could just move her arm enough to reach her robe pocket, she could stupefy the sick bastare and be done with it.

She had been stupid to assume he wouldn't try to kill her, stupid to let her guard down, and stupid to allow her curiosity to supersede her logic.

And who was he even talking about? There were very few women she knew that would want to harm her. She made a mental list of all of the possibilities, her blood running cold when she thought of Bellatrix Lestrange. What if Molly's curse had somehow been reversed? What if the bitch was still alive and out for blood? Her mudblood scar seemed burn at the thought.

Moments later, Blaise has laced his arm through hers and was apparating them to Merlin-knows-where. Her breath hitched as she braced herself for the worst, her eyes clenched tightly shut.

It wasn't until they had arrived in a darkened room that appeared to be a small study that she realized Blaise's original curse had been lifted.

She could move.

She could escape.

Oh Merlin, she could escape.

Ripping her arm from Zabini's grasp, she reached for her wand and swiftly moved to apparate. But the familiar darkness never came, and where there was generally a moment of immense pressure, she only felt a wall.

Wherever she was, it was well warded. She couldn't apparate. The familiar feeling of being caged returned, and she turned rapidly on Blaise. The wizard was leaned causally on the mahogany desk in the center of the office, watching her with one eyebrow cocked in confusion.

She leveled her wand on him, her hands shaking in fear. "You're going to get me out of here or I swear to Merlin I'll kill you." She threatened menacingly, pressing her wand even further into his neck.

And then she heard it. The feminine voice that whispered her name from the doorway. She recognized it immediately, spinning to see the familiar red hair and emerald green eyes that she had missed so dearly.

"Ginny," Hermione choked out in disbelief, reaching for the girl as if to make sure she was real.

And then everything went black, and Hermione hit the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here it is - Chapter Three! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Again, this is my first fic, so leave me a review to let me know how I'm doing (;**

 **~Chapter Three ~**

"Blaise!" Ginny screeched as she ran to where her friend had fallen moments before, crouching down to cradle Hermione's head in her lap worriedly.

"Okay, okay" Blaise started, raising his hands in surrender as Ginny glared up at him from where she sat next to Hermione's sprawled form, "Did I overreact? Maybe. But, to be fair, the witch was threatening to kill me less than two minutes ago."

"Overreact?!" Ginny protested, waving her hands at her friend's unconscious body for emphasis, "You stupefied her you bloody oaf!"

Crossing his arms in mock annoyance, Blaise continued to defend himself from where he sat perched on the edge of the desk. "I told her that you and I were working together, and that you wanted to be the one to explain everything to her in person, and then I apparated us back here and she freaked out … I can't help it if your friends are all unreasonable!"

Seeing the teasing smirk plastered on Blaise's face, Ginny raise an eyebrow at him knowingly, "And now tell me the details that you've left out," she demanded forcefully, standing up to join him across the room.

Blaise, suddenly preoccupied with his feet, refused to meet her narrowed eyes.

"Blaise Zabini you tell me right now or –"

Blaise cut her off abruptly, rushing to explain that he may have petrified the witch temporarily.

"It was only for a few minutes," he insisted with a nervous laugh as he leapt over the desk, knocking a bottle of fire whisky onto the floor and just barely managing to escape Ginny's assault as the fiery witch lunged at him angrily.

"You had _one_ job: explain our predicament to Hermione and bring her back here safely, and you're telling me that you somehow managed to petrify her, scare her half to death, and then _stupefy_ her?" she accused in disbelief, chasing Blaise around the desk in a failed attempt to reprimand him.

Having managed to catch up with the witch from behind, Blaise threw his arms around her waist and pulled her close against his chest, whispering cockily into her ear with a wolfish grin.

"I know, its really quite impressive work if I do say so myself. Now, where's my reward?" he murmured sarcastically, nipping at her ear playfully.

Still thrashing against him, Ginny couldn't help but let out a girlish laugh before bringing her foot down hard on his shoe, earning her a painful yelp of surprise from the wizard behind her.

Finally managing to squirm out of Blaise's grasp, Ginny stumbled forward clumsily, running directly into the crossed arms of one extremely exasperated Hermione Granger.

"Care to explain what you've been doing the past year and a half, Ginevra Weasley?" she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the pair of them.

Ginny blushed a deep red, her cheeks heating to nearly the same shade as her hair. At a loss for words, she glanced wearily back at Blaise before turning to face her friend.

"I know that you must have questions…" Ginny started nervously, hardly able to hold Hermione's gaze for more than a few moments without averting her eyes.

"Well she shouldn't. I already told her about our predicament if she had paid me any attention." Blaise grumbled from the corner, obviously still rather peeved by Hermione's earlier death threat.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, her hand moving unconsciously to her robe pocket that generally stored her wand.

"You," she snarled, "should be quiet. The only reason you are still standing is because Ginny seems to care for you."

"Though I can't say I see why," She added disdainfully, looking the wizard over in utter distaste.

Deciding to intervene before the tension in the room became even more palpable, Ginny quickly stepped between the two, inclining her head towards the doorway – a silent signal for Blaise to give the two women a moment alone.

"Bloody Gryffindors," Blaise mumbled annoyedly, rolling his eyes as he sauntered out the door.

With a flick of her wand, Ginny shut the door to the study and raised a silencing ward around the room, glancing back towards the older witch hesitantly.

Hermione stood unmoving in the center of the room, her fists clenched at her sides and her eyes narrowed angrily at Ginny, who seemed to be trying and failing to find the right words to say.

"I don't understand how you could have done this to us." Hermione ground out between clenched teeth, taking a menacing step forward towards the red-headed witch. "Ron was devastated – _devastated,_ Ginny. We all were. When you left it changed _everything._ " She continued, unable to keep the anger and hurt from coating her voice.

"I know," Ginny whispered, looking down guiltily. "But you know me, Hermione. You know I would never have left if I didn't have a good reason."

"Oh sure, because I can't think of _anything_ more noble than leaving behind everyone who cares about you and running off with Malfoy and Zabini to do Merlin knows what." Hermione scoffed, glaring at the witch irately.

"You don't understand," Ginny murmured, shaking her head dejectedly. "You have to let me explain, Hermione. I had to do it."

"Then bloody explain it to me!" Hermione screamed, spreading her arms wide in invitation - suddenly overcome with the urge to shake some sense into the woman standing in front of her.

"I want to." Ginny screamed back, losing her temper momentarily and effectively silencing her friend. "I want to tell you everything. And I will. I promise I will, but I can't yet."

"Like hell you can't," Hermione spat at her friend, finding herself increasingly unable to keep a hold on her emotions.

Ginny simply stared at her, knowing full well that she wouldn't be able to tell Hermione what the witch so desperately wanted to know even if she'd wanted to thanks to the unbreakable vow of silence that Malfoy had practically forced upon her when she'd first arrived nearly two years prior.

"I can't," Ginny repeated in resignation, sending up a silent prayer to Merlin that the headstrong witch in front of her would eventually calm down long enough to understand why.

Just as Hermione was opening her mouth to give her latest retort, a smirking Draco Malfoy prowled into the room, letting out a mirthful laugh at the sight of his great academic rival – always so well composed and seemingly all-knowing - standing shell-shocked and on the verge of a meltdown of epic proportions in the center of his study.

"Before you blow a gasket, Granger, you should probably know that our dear she-weasel is telling you the truth," he announced, stalking slowly towards her until he was a mere foot away, making a pointed effort to ignore the glower that the youngest Weasley witch fixed him with in response to the old nickname.

"What did you do, Malfoy?" Hermione demanded fiercely, spinning on her heel to face the loathsome wizard who had come to stand directly behind her, and fixing him with a glare so menacing that a lesser man might have balked.

Malfoy only chuckled, giving her a once over before clasping a hand to his chest in mock indignation.

"The witch shows up at my home unannounced and then accuses me of treachery without so much as a hello?" he asked to no one in particular, "You hurt me, Granger."

"Just answer the question, you bloody ferret!" Hermione snapped at him – wanting nothing more than to take a step back and regain at least some semblance of personal space, but unwilling to surrender even an inch to the man in front of her.

"Well, let's see here, I suppose that I'm taking a page out of the Gryffindor playbook and trying to save the world." He replied, shrugging nonchalantly and fixing her with his trademark smirk.

Up so close to the witch, he could hardly ignore how much she had changed. It was as if the frizzy-haired girl he had known in school had been erased entirely, now replaced with a glamourized version of the Hermione Granger that he had so enjoyed mocking while at Hogwarts.

Although he couldn't determine precisely why, something about her silky chestnut brown curls that fell effortlessly down her back and her perfectly maintained red lipstick set him off.

"You see, what with the Ministry making you into a useless show pony, and Wonder Boy and Weaselbee being too thick to see past their fanfare, I figured somebody ought to do something before the whole bloody world went to hell." He sneered at her indignantly, taking another menacing step forward so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes as he glared down at her.

Hermione felt his words hit like a physical blow to the chest, doing her very best not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her crumble to the floor under the weight of the accusation.

As much as she wanted to refute it, she couldn't deny that he was right. She had allowed herself to be shelved by the Order – her only function in the Ministry being as the pretty-faced one-time war heroine that Kingsley trotted out on special occasions to remind Wizarding London of the Light's great victory in the war.

But Malfoy didn't need to know that.

"You? The new protector of the wizarding realm?" She scoffed up at him haughtily, forcing the tension in her body to subside and meeting his glare with narrowed eyes in silent challenge, "If that's really true then these are dire times indeed."

Regardless of the fact that Malfoy had somehow managed to peg her role in the Ministry for exactly what it was, she absolutely refused to back down from this fight (if only for the fact that this was Draco Malfoy – bane of her existence and general pain in the arse – and she would _not_ allow him to demean her if it was the last thing she ever did).

He could almost see the gears in her head turning.

The blow had undoubtedly hit home, he knew. He could see it in her face as her jaw clenched ever so slightly and her chocolate brown eyes glazed over momentarily before she regained control and narrowed them combatively as she snarled up at him.

He smirked down at the witch even as she insulted him, his eyes gleaming with the realization that the Hermione Granger he had known at Hogwarts was still somewhere inside of the woman that now stood before him. Caged, perhaps, but still as brilliant and as fierce as she had been in school.

Tearing his eyes away from her momentarily, Draco glanced up at the red-headed witch that stood across the room with an eyebrow cocked suspiciously at the pair of them.

"Leave us, Weasley," he demanded firmly, praying to Merlin that the witch would leave without a fuss.

Much to Draco's surprise, aside from crossing her arms irritably and rolling her eyes at him, the witch didn't put up much of a fight as she stalked out of the room and down the hall to find Blaise.

"Tell me what's going on Malfoy, or I swear to Merlin I'll hex you where you stand," Hermione ground out defiantly, obviously none too pleased to have seen her friend dismissed so abruptly.

"Bloody fuck, Granger, you really aren't one for small talk are you," he replied with an exasperated sigh, crossing the room to pour them both a glass of fire whisky and beckoning her to sit.

"You act as if I haven't told you a damned thing, witch," he continued, handing her a tumbler and casually taking a seat across the desk, "but you already know that the recent string of Death Eater suicides has been a bloody farce, and you know that my father has regathered the Dark Lord's remaining followers, and you know that they're planning to siphon all of the magic from the wizarding world, so what exactly is it that you want me to tell you?"

Ironically, for the first time that day (and possibly even for the first time in all the years he'd known her) Hermione Granger appeared to be at a loss for words.

Staring at the wizard lounging casually across the desk from her, Hermione couldn't help but wonder why he was doing it.

A small part of her had always wondered what Malfoy really thought of the war - if he'd really agreed with his father's world views or if he'd just submitted to them to save his own skin. However, even if she had, at some points during the war, questioned his motives; she had never considered the fact that he might one day shift sides entirely. And she _never_ would have fathomed that he might one day be leading some rag-tag resistance.

"I want to know why you're doing it." she told him plainly, crossing her arms as she awaited his answer.

Malfoy seemed to consider her question for a long moment before he opened his mouth to respond – looking more pensive than she had ever seen him.

"One thing you have to understand," he began, "is that the only thing that is more important to the Malfoy family than blood purity is power. When your Order defeated the Dark Lord two years ago, it left a power vacuum in the ranks of the Death Eaters. I can only guess that the Ministry assumed that Voldemort's death would cause his followers to disband – to go underground – but they underestimated the lengths my father is willing to go to in order to secure power."

Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow at him but didn't speak – silently demanding him to elaborate further.

Downing the rest of his fire whisky in a single swig, Malfoy continued solemnly, "I saw all of that power go to Voldemort's head. I saw it drive him mad, and I saw it put everyone around him in jeopardy. I'm not willing to let my bloody father do the same."

Hermione just stared at him, as if she couldn't quite believe the words coming out of his mouth.

He seemed sincere enough, she supposed, but it was still difficult to comprehend the idea that Draco "My Father Will Hear About This" Malfoy was suddenly willing to stand up to the man that he had so idolized in adolescence.

"What changed?" she asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

Malfoy let out a humorless laugh at that, raising his brows at her as if to ask what didn't.

"Everything changed, Granger."

They didn't speak for a while after that. Both seemingly lost in thought temporarily – reflecting back on all of the people they had lost, all of the things that had been sacrificed to the war.

"Well then what exactly do you intend my role to be in all of this?" Hermione asked pointedly, shaking them both out of their dazed memories and back into the present.

Malfoy ran a hand through his silver hair nervously before responding. "I'll tell you," he promised her, "but if I do, you'll have to promise not to lose your shite on me, witch."

"Oh for bloody fucking sake, Malfoy, just spit it out already!" she demanded fiercely, unwilling to remain in suspense for any longer.

"I need you to be my whore," the silver-haired wizard said plainly, his steel grey eyes betraying nothing as he met her shocked gaze.

"you- you want me to- what?!" she screeched, suddenly on her feet and marching towards him angrily.

"You may think me a lowly mudblood, Draco Malfoy, but I would never – _never –_ stoop so low as to prostitute myself out to your ilk!" She exclaimed viciously, withdrawing her wand from her cloak and leveling it at the assuming bastard.

Malfoy just smirked at her, not even deigning to stand as he narrowed his eyes intently and magicked her wand away to Merlin knew where.

"Did I not just tell you to keep your shite together?" he asked, apparating to the other side of the room when Hermione lunged at him, leaving her to fall face first into the chair he had just vacated.

"I obviously don't want to fuck you, Granger." He scoffed from behind her as she regained her balance and began stomping towards him once more.

Hermione couldn't focus. She couldn't even formulate a coherent thought.

Whore.

Mafoy wanted her to be his _whore._

He was out of his bloody mind, she thought as she halted in front of him, bringing up a hand to slap him.

The next instant, he had both of her hands gripped tightly in his own and had pinned her back against the wall. "Keep your hands to yourself, witch," he growled menacingly, bringing his face so close to hers that he could feel her breath hitch at his words.

"They need to believe that I've fucked you into submission. That I have total control over you. _He_ needs to believe it. Otherwise, he'll never even let you into the room." He continued, angling his head so that his lips brushed lightly against her ear as he spoke.

Hermione couldn't help the slight chill that wracked through her body at his proximity. It wasn't that she thought he was going to hurt her, but she was afraid to be so close to him nonetheless.

"What room?" she murmured, doing everything possible to keep from betraying her discomfort and giving him the upper hand.

"Every week, my Father holds a strategy meeting at the manor. All Circle members are required to attend, and lately many of them have begun bringing along…toys. It's become a bit of a competition, really. Who can bring in the hottest piece of ass. My father was smart enough to force everyone to swear a blood oath of secrecy in the beginning, but he hasn't had enough wisdom to make the women swear the same."

Hermione's jaw fell in shock, her eyes glimmering with sudden understanding. "You don't need me to be your whore," she whispered, "you need me to be your spy."

Draco grinned at her, leaning back just enough so that he could meet her deep brown eyes as he asked, "Who better than the brightest witch of our age?"

Hermione's mind was racing at a mile a minute as she struggled to fit all of the pieces of the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy into place.

He had obviously turned rogue and was apparently forming some sort of resistance.

He wanted her to spy for him but in order to do it needed her to play as his whore.

He was still snobbish and cocky and an utter arse, but he seemed to have lost that air of cruelty he had always carried with him in school.

And, most concerning of all, he still had her pinned to the wall – his entire body pressed firmly against hers, his steely grey eyes blazing directly into her own – and for some reason she couldn't quite bring herself to pull away.

"I'll do it," she whispered – her voice soft but unwavering – "I'll do it."


End file.
